Ennui
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: A day in the life of Sherlock Holmes, in which he has boiled a human foot, needs a pencil, and causes John to lose his marbles.


**A few things I should explain:**

**-I've heard this fandom is particularly rabid in its fangirlishness.**

**-This is my first Sherlock fic.**

**-I have seen the first two episodes of the first season, plus random clips from other episodes ("Get off my sheet!" xD). Not much to go on.**

**-I came up with this story (like so many others I've written) in the wee hours of the morning, hyped up on caffeine, after an entire weekend of not sleeping. I have little control over when the muse visits me. **

**-I wrote this in one sitting.**

**-I'm sorry.**

**That being said...um...**

**Don't hurt me. Please.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was bored. And when Sherlock Holmes is bored, he tends to do some very strange things. Like spray paint a smiley face on the wall for target practice. Or pace the living room with a harpoon. Or perform "experiments" in the kitchen. But today he couldn't be bothered. And so he was acting normal—or as normal as he could—and was playing the violin. Loudly. At six AM. Right underneath John Watson's bedroom floor.

It worked. Soon enough, he heard his flatmate's footsteps cross the floor, out onto the landing, and stomp down the stairs. He was still pretending to have a limp, Sherlock noted. There was a slight dragging sound every time he moved his right foot.

"Morning, Sherlock." he heard John growl from the doorway. "Do you need something?"

"Bored," he replied, without even turning to look at him or ceasing his playing. John shuffled into the kitchen. "And by the way, are you _ever_ going to stop limping? We both know it's psychosomatic."

"I'm not limping," replied his assistant, rummaging through the cabinets. The man was a fiend for caffeine. And food. Something which annoyed Sherlock unduly. His kitchen was _not_ for cooking in. "Oh, by the way, Mrs. Hudson wanted me to tell you that…erm…Sherlock?"

Annoyed huff. "Yes?"

"There's a bag of severed fingers in the freezer."

"And?"

"_Why_ are they there?"

"Research. You wouldn't understand." he said, as he took up pacing across the living room, still playing absentmindedly.

"Sherlock, I swear, if I ever got a health inspector in here…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not that John could see it. "But you wouldn't, would you?"

John deflated. "Probably not."

"Oh, and John-" he remarked as he paused to stare out the window at nothing in particular. "I wouldn't use that anymore." He was referring, of course, to the electric kettle John now held under the faucet. "Unless you want salmonella."

It was all John could do not to drop it in the sink. "And just _what_ have you put in here that would give me salmonella?"

"A foot," Sherlock replied succinctly, clicking the 't'. His gaze never ventured from the street below.

That was it. John went bonkers. "You've put _a human foot_ in the kettle?! What am I supposed to do about breakfast if I can't even have _tea_?"

"Café. Next street over. Opens in about an hour." Sherlock said. "Oh, don't be like that, and bring me a biscuit when you get back?"

"Sherlock, has it ever occurred to you that a kitchen is for cooking? Food? You know, for people to eat?"

"Yes, it has, thank you for stating the obvious. You can go off and sulk now, if you like. I won't keep you."

He smiled to himself as John retreated up the stairs. Some time later, an unholy racket from upstairs startled him from his trancelike playing, resulting in him jolting and causing a string to break.

"Damn, he muttered under his breath, rubbing his chin where the offending strand of catgut had hit. Putting his violin down, he searched around for a scrap of paper and a pencil. _Note to self: buy new strings. _But he encountered a problem. He couldn't find anything to write with.

Annoyed, he picked up his phone. It was easier than shouting up the stairs.

_Pencil!_

_SH_

The response:

_I'm at the café getting your bloody biscuit. Didn't you hear me leave?_

Sherlock:

_Ah, that hullabaloo. I didn't realize you had. Regardless, I still need a pencil. _

_Bloody biscuits sound marvellous. Nice to hear they're being innovative._

_SH_

John:

_Get one yourself. And don't make me laugh. I choked on my coffee and now people are staring._

Sherlock put his phone down and shook his head, suppressing a laugh. John truly was an idiot sometimes.

...

* * *

Not ten minutes later, John returned with a coffee cup and a bulging paper bag. He plopped the bag on the table in front of his flatmate, who had assumed one of his many standard 'bored' positions and was sprawled across the entire length of the couch. He drew himself out of his torpor long enough to reach over and grab it.

"John, what is this? I asked for _a_ biscuit, not a dozen. My God, are you normal people so stupid you can't even count correctly?"

"I figured I'd be nice," John sneered. "Though I see kindness is wasted on you."

"On the contrary, _my dear Watson._" Sherlock replied, matching his tone.

"Would a simple 'thank you' be too much?"

"Possibly. Shut up." Sherlock drew his hands together in concentration. Whenever he did that, John half-expected him to start chanting a mantra.

"Sorry. I'll just be leaving for work now."

"Hm," the detective replied thoughtfully. After what seemed only to him a moment, but was really two hours, he got up off the couch, took a biscuit from the bag, and grabbed his gun. Turning to face the wall, he took aim, fired, and took a viciously triumphant chomp out of the biscuit. And then he remembered.

"_John! A pencil!_"

* * *

**That was...well, I'm not entirely sure what that was. **

**Reviews? They would make the insecure writer very happy. They can be scathing or you can sing my praises. It really doesn't matter. **

**-S.S.**


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